


[Slim hips]

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessiveness, Riding, Smut, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8682595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Sherlock and John have a little fun. They don't quite agree on the distribution of the work done, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Porn, because there were evil people on tumblr talking about the purple shirt of sex and Ben's slim hips. EVIL.
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/152734596842/wssh-watson-addignisherlock

John’s small but capable hands are tight on sherlock’s slim hips. His palms fit perfectly around these hard, small curves of sherlock, his fingers getting just enough hold of Sherlock’s flesh to keep holding on even though there’s barely an ounce of fat on him. Not on his hips, that is; but on his arse, oh there’s a lovely handful. John would like that in his hands now (or feel it sink slightly underneath his teeth–softly, softly) but his hands are otherwise occupied, on sherlock’s lovely hips that rock in perfect cadence to this sinuous dance they share now, a dance that John had the honour to teach him.

“Focus, John,” Sherlock says from above him. There’s a hint of admonishment in his voice, but mostly it’s fondness. Sherlock hides little when they do this; though even this was something he had come to learn. “Try to keep up.”

“See no reason to.” John’s eyes wander slowly up Sherlock’s slim–but taut and muscled–body. He meets Sherlock’s stare, holds it, and says, “You’re doing well enough.”

To illustrate his point, he (regretfully) slides his hands off Sherlock, stretches them out and crosses them behind his head: laziness embodied.

“Doctors.” Sherlock’s huff is sardonic, if huffs can be sardonic. “Never do a thing. You always let the nurses–” Sherlock gives a particularly sharp twist of his hips. “–do the real work.”

John’s eyelids flutter momentarily shut at the unexpected pleasure that pools viciously like something hot and molten between his thighs. When they open again, he sees Sherlock’s own eyes fairly glint in self-satisfaction. Along with his slightly curled mouth–that lovely lopsided thing he does with his lips–he is the picture of a smug cat particularly happy to be sitting atop John.

Something needs to be done about that. John uncrosses his arms.

“As always, Sherlock, your massive intellect…” Because John has never been above terrible puns, he rubs his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock at the last two words, smearing the wetness there so he can gather it in his palm and make fisting Sherlock’s cock easier. “…tends to oversee the obvious.”

Sherlock tries valiantly to keep the pleased, surprised groan inside. He mostly manages. His hips, however, stutter for a bit; nothing of this shows on his face. He remains the perfect picture of the smug, supercilious cat. Needing to top John–in possibly every sense of the word–he leans down so their noses almost touch, supporting himself with the palms of his hands on the sheets beside John’s head, and murmurs, “And the obvious would be…?”

John’s grin is instant, and feral. “You forget,” he says, “that I was a soldier.”

With this, he bites none too tenderly into Sherlock’s lower lip, brings one hand to Sherlock’s hair and pulls, as the other finds Sherlock’s hip again, pushing him down against his own, which have begun snapping upward in a punishing and relentless rhythm.  


Sherlock has nothing much to say after that.

*

  


The next morning John watches Sherlock dress in the mirror, which is something he frequently does. Sherlock catches his gaze–which also happens often–and then deliberately palms his right hip over his purple shirt, where John’s handprint still shows in a lovely bruising pattern.

John tips his chin up, feels the corner of his mouth pull up briefly. Then he turns away to start dressing himself, and he doesn’t see Sherlock’s answering smile.


End file.
